I’ve hauled cargo with my two-year-old in tow for years, but last week, he said something that chilled me to the core, hinting at a presence in our truck I can’t explain. What I found next changed how I see the road.
I’m Jenna, 29, a truck driver since my teens. When daycare costs skyrocketed, I buckled my son, Eli, into the cab, and we hit the highway together. At two, he’s feisty, clever, and loves the hum of the engine more than most rookies.
Eli and I are a team—matching trucker hats, shared granola bars, and belting out road trip tunes. The miles blend into a rhythm of fuel stops and loading docks. But last week, near Tulsa, something broke that rhythm.
We pulled into a rest stop at dusk. I was inspecting the trailer while Eli played with his toy semi, giggling on the pavement. Out of the blue, he looked up and said, “Mama, when’s he coming back?”
“Who, buddy?” I asked, crouching down.
He pointed to the cab. “The man in the seat. He was here before.”
My heart skipped. We’re always alone. I never let anyone in my rig.
“What man, Eli?” I pressed, trying to stay calm.
He shrugged, unbothered. “He gave me a picture for you.”
I checked the cab—nothing. But later, rummaging for my logbook in the console, I found it: a folded paper with “Eli” scrawled on it. Inside was a crayon sketch—three stick figures: one tall, one small, and one in a tiny blue cap like Eli’s favorite.
Below it, in shaky handwriting: “He’s still here.”
The cab felt heavy, like eyes were watching. “Eli, what did he look like?” I asked.
“Like your hat, but old,” he said. “Smelled like Grandpa’s truck.”
My dad, Eli’s granddad, was a trucker for decades until he passed last spring. Eli was barely one, too young to remember him. Yet his words sent shivers down my spine.
“Did he say anything else?” I asked.
Eli grinned. “He said, ‘Tell Mama to slow down. She’s already won.’”
I stared at the drawing, speechless. That night, I parked early, curling up with Eli in the sleeper, his warmth grounding me as the highway hummed outside.
The next morning, I found another paper in the driver’s door pocket—worn, stained, with my dad’s unmistakable handwriting. It was an old log from his Route 40 days, noting “cheap coffee here” and “sharp curve ahead.” At the bottom, he’d written: “Ease up, kid. The road’s just part of it.”
I watched the sunrise, clutching that log. Maybe Eli hadn’t imagined him. Maybe the road holds onto those who lived for it. And maybe my dad was still riding with us, watching over his little team.